


lay him down on a bed of thorns

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (if you squint), Angst, F/M, Sewing Words into Skin, Very light bloodplay, needleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-27
Updated: 2021-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-28 00:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are some things you can't say out loud.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Rose Tico
Kudos: 3
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	lay him down on a bed of thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/gifts).



Ben’s skin is hot, beads of blood sliding off his thigh and onto Rose’s fingers. The needle is slippery, but she knows she can rely on her callouses to keep her aim true, just like they do on oil-slicked engines.

The glistening point slides under his skin again, and he hisses, knuckles white, clutching the metal bed frame of her bunk.

The red thread follows the silver needle, and she pulls them both through on the other side. His breath catches, a guttural half-groan escaping, when the needle pushes back out, the thread with it. She tried this once, on herself, just to see how it felt. She hated the initial pain, loved the alien and invasive feeling of thread twisting inside her skin.

But Ben, Ben seems to love both. He sucks in a breath, eyes clamped closed, as she stitches. He lies on the bed where she kneels on the floor beside it.

His skin is bare for her, while she remains in her uniform. Even on the rare occasions that they have sex, she keeps as many clothes on as she can. He can take pain from her, but the idea of him taking pure pleasure makes her…

Her mother used to tell her and Paige to never do anything they were ashamed of.

She looks up at him, and his eyes are open now, glittering at her in the dim light of her room. That look, it always does something to her, moves something inside her. It’s a like a door creaking open too quickly for her to slam it shut, try as she might.

“Slower,” he says, his voice thin, low. It would sound more like a command if she didn’t already know it was a plea.

She nods, doesn’t trust herself to speak. He doesn’t seem to either; only ever asks her to slow down or speed up. If they put words to this, real words, it would only work to define it. They might have to talk about why he comes, and why she even lets him in.

The way she feels about Ben is the only thing she’s ever encountered that she doesn’t want to find the limits of, to get into the guts of and understand.

She slows her movements, pushing the needle as slow as she can bear. It drags at his skin, tearing, poking, struggling to puncture. He makes an appreciative noise, hand going to his erect cock before he thinks better of it and returns to the metal railing.

When he first came in earlier that night, sweaty and panicked and needing this release, she hadn’t been sure what she’d sew into him. Her other projects had been putting a name to the emotions she could see in him — _Anger_ , _Shame_ , _Hatred_. Or perhaps they were her own feelings, she is never quite sure afterwards.

But now she knows and she will see it through, even if it makes her stomach churn.

She loops the needle round, starts the next letter. He rocks his head back, full of anguished muttering. Somewhere in there, she thinks she hears “sorry”.

She presses down harder. His cock jerks in response.

She wants to hurt him, hates that she wants that. Doesn’t know how to place that misshapen pebble of pleasure on the solid stack of rocks that make up the rest of her. She knows what’s good, what’s moral, what’s righteous. She follows through on her values. Doesn’t she?

And yet, there’s sick pleasure that twists in her gut, wettens her cunt, having his supple flesh beneath her fingers, administering this pain.

She tells herself that it’s only pleasurable because he’s obviously enjoying it. But she’s not sure that’s true. Not sure she wouldn’t want to take her anger out at him a different way, if they didn’t have this outlet. And this one, at least, is healthier. Controlled, patient.

His hand goes to his cock again, stays there. She pauses to watch him stroke, feels a yearning inside her.

She takes a breath and shuts it out, goes back to work. She takes her time with the rest of the letters, watching his skin break and fold, rivulets of blood dripping onto her sheets, his breath hitching with every new puncture in a way that excites her, thrills her, makes her feel so—so—so powerful.

Then she’s done, pulling the last of piece of thread through. She ties the thread off and leans back to check her lines, wiping at the blood. It’s steady, careful, like all her work. There’s pride to be found in it.

But she freezes when Ben’s eyes open. He lifts himself onto his elbows, agonisingly slow, before he inspects her handiwork. She bites her lip. This word is unlike the others — not an emotion, but an accusation.

She expects some hint of betrayal, maybe anger or offense. But instead, he seems to marvel at it.

“Killer,” he reads, his voice low. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, before he opens them again. There’s the barest hint of something on his face — amusement, maybe, hidden deep in there somewhere.

He traces the thread with his finger.

Ah, that’s what it is — he looks grateful, she thinks. A pang of ugly affection threatens her, but she tamps it down.

When he hits the off-ramp of the final R, she reaches out and takes his hand. It dwarfs her own, and his fingertip is coated in sticky blood. She takes it into her mouth, sucks the blood off. Leans down and licks clean the rest of the wound, earning a hiss on contact. She licks the copper from her lips.

She looks up at him, gut full of stars, a prickling feeling beneath her skin.

His eyes are hooded, he’s watching her carefully.

She always wonders, on these nights when there’s want in his eyes but a stillness to his frame, whether it’s because he has taken so much in the past, that he’s too scared to take again now. Instead, in his eyes, a hunger, deeper than she can imagine, that sends shivers through her, and a stirring within. She has always been happy to feed an empty mouth, even if they do not ask.

She pulls herself up, presses towards him, moving to straddle him. He grabs at her eagerly, taking the sanctuary offered. She loses herself in his mouth, in the way he grabs at her sides, helping her slide her trousers off. She pushes her panties aside, blindly guiding his cock inside her, embarrassingly wet and ready to receive him.

She wants to think that he fits perfectly, like he were made to be there. But that’s stupid, rash, the kind of thoughts that can only lead down paths she can’t turn back from.

When they’ve spent each other, she lies on top of him, their sweat-slicked skin pressed closed, for longer than she needs to, listening to their breaths steady in unison.

Only when she becomes chilled, sleepy, does she crawl off and begin the work of unpicking her thread, so they can both go back to acting like none of this happened, until the next time it does.


End file.
